


rosemary.

by autisticallisonreynolds



Category: Near Dark (1987), The Lost Boys (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, do i care abt either of those? no., does this adhere to nd canon? no., does this adhere to tlb canon? no., this is. very hc-based elfjisjfsijefe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27296929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autisticallisonreynolds/pseuds/autisticallisonreynolds
Summary: from the summer of 1966 to the summer of 1969, a teenage lucy emerson had a best friend named rosemary sweeney.
Relationships: Lucy Emerson & Mae (Near Dark, Mae (Near Dark)/Star (The Lost Boys), well the latter is just implied/mentioned but still it's There
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	rosemary.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in like two hours
> 
> happy halloween fools lol

before she left santa carla in the summer of 1969, lucinda emerson didn’t have many friends. her father had made sure of that, keeping her in their secluded home whenever he could. she hated him for it at the time, even if she understands why he did it now; it was half of why it took her eighteen years to come back (michael and sam’s father took care of the other half), and hell, it was half of why she left in the first place.

as for the other half...

from when she was sixteen to nineteen, lucy had a friend named rosemary sweeney.

(well, looking back on it, lucy’s pretty sure rosemary wasn’t her real name, at least not the one she was given at birth. but it was what she called herself, and she seemed happy with it, so lucy supposes it doesn’t really matter.)

it was the summer of 1966, when rosemary first came to santa carla and started working in a bar that lucy would frequent when she was far too young to be doing things like that. she said she was a newcomer, but she didn’t really need to. her southern accent and odd clothing--to this day, lucy has never met anyone else who wears denim to the beach--both made that pretty clear. she was always kind of vague about where she originally came from, but her father was certain she had to be from alabama.

( _speaking of her father, rosemary was different from the rest of her friends in that she was the only one her father genuinely got along with. it was...a little weird, but whatever._ )

even now, lucy can still picture her clear as day: soft blonde hair (a little too long to be a pixie cut), old faded denim jacket, torn jeans, and some of the bluest eyes lucy had ever seen before or since. always real quiet, never used ten words when she could just use two, had a really monotone way of speaking, but lucy liked her all the same. hell, in another life, perhaps they could’ve dated. just wasn’t meant to be, she guesses. just as much.

rosemary had her eye on someone else at the time, it seemed.

while she usually ended up couch-surfing with various co-workers of hers (she never really seemed to have a stable place to stay), rosemary would be out all night with this...mystery girl just as often. rosemary never really went into specifics about her--for as long as lucy knew her, she’d always been a very private woman--but from what little she said, it was obvious to lucy that rosemary loved her a lot. it was because of that that lucy didn’t really care about her evasiveness about the other woman. she just always seemed so tired---it was a fun kind of tired most of the time, but it still worried lucy--so lucy was just happy her friend seemed genuinely happy, for once.

lucy never really met the mystery girl, either, but she’s pretty sure she saw her once: she’d spotted rosemary saying goodbye to another woman one night, watching as they kissed before the girl spotted her in turn. rosemary had turned to see who it was, perhaps intending to introduce them, but then lucy blinked and the other girl was gone, seemingly having disappeared into the forest behind her. lucy never knew a person was capable of being that fast (and knowing what she knows now, lucy’s almost certain they aren’t). it was only a brief glimpse, but lucy’s memory managed to snag a few details: long dark curly hair, tan skin, a white top (that lucy is now almost certain was made from lace), oversized dark jacket, long skirt that shimmered pink and purple in the moonlight, and two moles on her face. one just above her upper lip and the other just below her left eye, to be more precise.

( _she’s never said anything to star, and she probably never will. she has a feeling she doesn’t need to, that star probably knows anyway. lucy saw it, that night almost a year ago now. in her eyes: that telltale glimmer of recognition. it’s this unspoken thing between them now, wherever star is currently, and lucy is more than glad to keep it that way._ )

lucy...doesn’t like to think about whoever that girl could’ve been, if she’s being honest.

regardless, lucy was so happy during the brief time she knew rosemary sweeney, having a friend she could finally relate to on a deeper level than most people in santa carla. someone who she could maybe, just maybe call a best friend. but, of course, no one finds lasting happiness in santa carla. lucy should’ve known better than to expect things to be any different.

so, in a fucked way, it only makes sense that rosemary sweeney would vanish barely a week after her twentieth birthday.

no one panicked when rosemary didn't show up to her night shift at first, not even lucy (something she still feels guilty for). no one really panicked when people didn’t show up in santa carla. happens all the time, after all. even when it became more and more clear that she really wasn’t around, everybody just figured she'd gotten spooked and ran off someplace for a bit. wouldn’t have been the first time she’d done something like that. her father had panicked, however, and lucy didn’t understand why at the time. and then people found a trail of blood streaked all throughout santa carla the next morning, and that’s when the horror set in as it became all too clear why rosemary never showed up the night before.

it had happened again.

( _lucy emerson doesn’t know this, but rosemary's grandmother laverne passed away shortly after her disappearance was well-known in the news, swearing on her deathbed that “the devil got that child”. rosemary's aunt rachel figured the stress from her only granddaughter's disappearance had started to make her go senile in her final hours._ )

rosemary sweeney was just _gone_ , just like so many people that came before and after her.

except no. no, it wasn’t just like them.

because usually when people disappear in santa carla, they never turn up again. ever. they remain a grey face on a missing poster for years and years and years on end. no bodies, no funerals, nothing. santa carla almost never gives up her dead. and while they never did find _rosemary_ specifically, they _did_ find the people she was with that night. what was left of them, at least. all blood and gore and bones, smeared all over the walls, strewn up and down the hotel hallways.

( _so it couldn’t have been the boys, then. they always made sure to leave no trace. no, this was someone else, someone far_ ** _worse_** _, and that frightens lucy just as much as max did._ )

as for rosemary herself?

the last anyone had seen of her (that bothered to come forward, at least) was a woman with a bleeding shoulder matching her description running down the road and into the dark, screaming for help that would never arrive all the way. and other than a bloody trail that ended suddenly in the middle of a road right outside the city limits, there was no more trace of her. nothing. nada. zilch.

it was then that lucy finally understood why people always called santa carla “the murder capital of the world” and she began to hate santa carla for it. a part of her still does, even now, eighteen years later. she hated whoever took her friend away from her. she hated the people who heard her screaming but did nothing to help like the cowards they were. but, most of all, she hated rosemary for disappearing on her, for not being careful enough to avoid whatever the hell got her. she knew even then that it wasn’t fair to blame her for that, but if there’s one thing lucy learned from raising michael and sam, it’s that angry teenagers aren’t known for being too reasonable. it was thanks to this teenage anger that she left santa carla not long after, and it'd take her almost twenty years to come back.

it wasn’t the first disappearance in santa carla, not by a long shot. but it’s... _different_ when it’s someone you’re used to seeing everyday, lucy supposes.

nowadays, lucy doesn’t like to think about margaret too much. whenever she does, she tries to just stick to the good memories, but that almost never works. she tries not to think about what might’ve happened to her that horrible night in the summer of 1969: whether she was alone or if they had stood over her to watch her die, whether she had died screaming or if the hole in her throat had made it impossible to even gasp for air, whether she simply bled to death or if they had to torture her before they finally killed her. lucy doesn’t know. she doesn’t want to. all she knows is that whatever happened must've been horrible and cruel and no one deserved to go out the way rosemary probably did (well. except for maybe max).

but, of course, knowing what she knows now has opened up a...new option. one that lucy emerson refuses to entertain, no matter how likely it is.

the thing is that...lucy knows it’s an awful thing to think, but she _hopes_ that poor rosemary’s dead and rotting out there somewhere. she _hopes_ that she’s dead and has been for eighteen years and they just haven’t found her bones yet. it’s the logical option. the kinder option. the easier option.

because sometimes lucy emerson wonders. wonders if, one night, she’ll see rosemary again.

she can even picture what her friend would probably look like, in her mind’s eye: pale skin glimmering in the moonlight. those brilliant blue eyes, either grey and lifeless or so bright they’re practically glowing in the damn dark. a scar somewhere on her neck, either barely noticeable or long and gnarled and trailing up into her face. a smudge of _something_ dark on her lip, freshly wet or dry and crusted.

and, last but not least, not having aged a day since that terrible summer night way back in 1969.


End file.
